Between the Lines

The cold, dim light of the late afternoon filtered through the French windows of the grand sitting room, casting long shadows across the polished wooden floors. Draco Malfoy sat on the arm of a chair by the fireplace, his fingers absently tracing the edge of his glass. The room was unusually quiet, save for the soft ticking of an antique clock on the wall. His mother, Narcissa, stood near the window, her delicate fingers gently cupping a small glass jar, one containing several beautifully preserved monarch butterflies.

The butterflies fluttered lazily inside, their wings a brilliant orange and black contrast to the dull atmosphere of the room. But Draco knew better than to assume that this was just about the butterflies. His mother often used nature—plants, animals, whatever caught her attention—as a way to skirt the harder conversations, the ones they’d rather avoid.

“Do you remember, Draco?” Narcissa’s voice was soft, almost wistful. “When we used to visit the gardens at Malfoy Manor, back when we still had time for such things?” Her eyes lingered on the jar, her fingers running over its glass surface with a tenderness that Draco rarely saw from her.

He shifted slightly, drawing in a breath before responding, his tone neutral. “I remember.”

“There were always so many of them,” she continued, her gaze still fixed on the jar. “The butterflies. Beautiful, fleeting... changing. So easily overlooked, but they were always there. Have you ever thought about how they transform, Draco? How they start as something so small, so ordinary, and turn into something... extraordinary?”

Draco glanced at her, sensing that the metaphor was going to stray far from the insects themselves. She was searching for something again, something he wasn’t sure he could give her.

He hesitated, unsure of how to respond. “I suppose. But some things don’t transform, do they?”

Narcissa gave him a small smile, the kind that never quite reached her eyes. It was a look he had seen far too often. “No, perhaps not. Not everything can be as beautiful as a butterfly. But even they have to endure the worst of conditions to reach their true form. They go through a painful metamorphosis before they can emerge.”

Her voice was so soft, so quiet, that Draco almost didn’t hear the unspoken meaning behind the words. He shifted uncomfortably on the chair. “I’ve always hated butterflies,” he said bluntly, his voice tinged with bitterness. “They’re fragile, like everything else in this house. It’s all just so... so fragile.”

His mother’s eyes flickered to him, but her expression didn’t change. “Some things, Draco, are worth being fragile for.”

Draco felt a pang of something he couldn’t quite place, but before he could respond, Narcissa straightened, setting the jar carefully on the table. The shift in her mood was immediate—calm and measured, like the practiced grace of someone who had spent years living behind a mask.

“I’m leaving now,” she said softly, brushing her hands down her robes. “I must go visit your father. He... still expects me to bring him some kind of comfort.” Her voice was tinged with a bitterness that made Draco frown, but he didn’t argue. His father’s imprisonment had always been a subject he’d rather not discuss.

“Alright,” he replied, his voice distant. He stood up, the slight creak of his shoes on the floor the only sound between them. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever truly understood why his mother still visited his father in Azkaban. But he didn’t need to. She had always been a woman of duty, and her loyalty to Lucius—no matter how broken their family had become—was something he knew she would never completely abandon.

“Take care of yourself,” she said, her hand lingering on his shoulder for just a moment. “And be careful of your choices, my love.”

Draco nodded but didn’t speak. Narcissa’s departure was quiet, leaving Draco alone in the house once again. He stared out the window, watching her disappear into the distance, her pale figure swallowed by the thickening shadows of the evening.

But despite the emptiness of the house, Draco’s mind wasn’t completely lost in the past. He had invited his friends—Blaise, Pansy, and Theo—over to their temporary residence, the luxurious summer home in the south of France. After all, it wasn’t like they had anywhere else to go. Their ancestral home—Malfoy Manor—was off-limits, the wards still holding strong to keep them away, as though the house itself had rejected them after everything that had happened.

“Home is where you make it,” Draco muttered to himself, a wry smile tugging at his lips. He had to make it work, even if it was in this unfamiliar place.

The doorbell chimed, and he turned from the window just in time to see the arrival of his friends. Theo, Pansy, and Blaise all walked in with typical grandeur, Pansy carrying an armload of bags from a recent shopping trip.

“Well, this place is posh,” Theo remarked as he swept his gaze around the large entryway, a grin spreading across his face.

“You should see the bedrooms,” Pansy chimed in, her voice light but playful. “The beds practically swallow you whole.”

Draco nodded absently, his mind elsewhere. He excused himself and headed toward the back terrace, hoping for some air to clear his thoughts. The conversation had been drifting, and it wasn’t long before Blaise followed him outside.

“What’s bothering you?” Blaise’s voice was sharp, perceptive, as always. He had always been able to read Draco’s moods better than most.

Draco took a deep breath, his fingers curling around the cool stone of the terrace railing. “You were right, Blaise. I shouldn’t have gotten involved with Potter.”

Blaise’s eyes widened slightly, and he stepped closer. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been... feeling things, alright?” Draco’s voice had an edge to it, and his face twisted into a grimace. “Things I shouldn’t feel for him. He’s Harry fucking Potter. He’s not someone I can just—”

“You’re not making sense,” Blaise interrupted, his tone hardening. “What are you even trying to say, Draco? Are you telling me you’ve caught feelings for the Boy Who Lived?”

Draco’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t pull away. “Maybe I’m not entirely as indifferent as I thought I was.”

The air between them seemed to crackle with something dangerous. “And you think that’s wise? After everything that’s happened?” Blaise’s voice was tinged with frustration. “You know what will, Draco. You’ll lose everything.”

Draco’s eyes flashed with anger, his control slipping. “I already lost everything, Blaise,” he snapped, his voice sharp. “And it’s not just about him. It’s about what we are, what we’ve become. I’m tired, Blaise.im fucking tired and I just want to pretend for a moment…”

Blaise stared at him for a long moment, and then, without warning, he took a step forward, shoving Draco hard against the stone wall.

“Don’t act like you know what’s best for me,” Blaise growled, his face inches from Draco’s. “You’re just as lost as the rest of us. This—this thing with Potter—it’s going to blow up in your face.”

“You don’t get it,” Draco spat back, his voice trembling with anger. “I Love Him.”

Before he could say another word, Blaise’s fist came down hard across his cheek.

The punch landed with a sickening thud, and Draco staggered back, his head spinning. He raised his hand to his face, feeling the sharp sting of the bruise already beginning to form under his skin. His breath came in short gasps, his body shaking with the shock of the blow.

Blaise stood there, chest heaving, his expression horrified at what he had just done. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his voice breaking. “Draco, I—I didn’t mean to—”

“Then why the fuck did you do it?!” Draco snarled, his voice strained. The words were thick with pain and fury, but he could see the guilt in Blaise’s eyes. The guilt was enough to tear at him.

“I—shit, I’m sorry,” Blaise said, running his hands through his hair in frustration. “I just—I didn’t want you to make a mistake. I didn’t want to see you get hurt. please, Draco.”

Theo and Pansy appeared behind them, looking concerned, their eyes flicking between Blaise and Draco. Pansy immediately rushed to Draco’s side, her hands hovering over his face with a worried expression.

“You’re okay, right?” she asked, her voice soft as she helped him steady himself.

Draco nodded stiffly, not trusting himself to speak. But then, he turned his cold gaze toward Blaise, his tone low and dangerous. “You better hope this doesn’t turn into something worse, Blaise. Because right now, I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

Blaise’s shoulders sagged, his guilt almost overwhelming. His voice cracked as he spoke again, his eyes raw with emotion. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Draco. I never wanted to hurt you.”

Pansy shot Blaise a look that said it all—you've fucked up, and now you need to fix it.

As the air between them grew thick with unspoken feelings, Draco let out a long breath, wishing that things could just be simple. But they weren’t. And they probably never would be.

It was going to be a long road, and Draco wasn’t sure if anyone was going to come out of this unscathed.